


think of the lowest you're willing to pay, and i'll take the rest of you

by timber (calculus)



Series: were i to give you my entire soul, it would still not be enough [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - xxxHoLic Fusion, Folklore, Korean Religion & Lore, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shamanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-06-11 17:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15320442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculus/pseuds/timber
Summary: Every wish has its price. You just have to be willing to pay it.





	1. this is how it ends

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for [96z's Swimming Fools Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Swimming_Fools_2018), though ultimately incomplete by the time of deadline

**_now._ **

The house is the same.

Wonwoo thinks it should stop being a surprise after fifteen-plus years, but the same mixed feelings of awe and disquiet still well up within seconds of laying his eyes on the house. The tiles are particularly gleaming today, the sun shining heavy on the curved black roof, and still, it’s an unsettling feeling to recognize how pristine and untouched the building looks, wedged between a coffee shop and a crumbling apartment complex. It shouldn’t be. Bukchon is known for its hanok village, but the house sits apart from the toured clusters of hanok, and passerbys walk without ever seeming to notice its presence.

Someone bumps into him, an elderly woman with aged shoulders and bright white hair, and Wonwoo apologizes immediately, stepping aside from the middle of the street where he’d been dumbly standing. She smiles blankly at him, tilting her head in an unsaid question, and Wonwoo feels the need to say something.

“Ah, I’m, uh, waiting for a friend,” he says quickly, bowing his head again in a stiff nod of deference, and the woman chuckles.

“Are you here to see Kwon-baksu as well?” she asks, eyes twinkly, rheumy as they were, the small pair of glasses sliding down her nose. It’s startlingly similar to how Wonwoo’s own grandmother would look at him when she was still alive, a bit knowing and magical.

Wonwoo blinks, taken aback. “Oh. Are you here for an appointment?”

She adjusts her shawl, heavy and delicate, over a summer green durumagi. “Yes, it’s time I pay the new baksu a visit before my time is up.” The words are simple, said without any inflection, but Wonwoo tenses anyway, drawing himself up tightly.

“Well, then, allow me to accompany you in,” he says, politely, offering his arm as a hold. She hums and reaches over, the slip of a gnarled hand grasping his forearm tightly, and picks up a handbag that apparently escaped Wonwoo’s attention.

“I would be honored, Jeon Wonwoo-ssi,” the woman says, winking. Wonwoo sucks in a breath, but nods without question, leading her to the wide double-doors. He lifts a flat palm to the warm wood, grounds himself in the solidity of burnished pine, and the doors swing open without push. He helps the woman over the gateway first, letting her press surprising weight onto his arm, and then crosses over himself.

The second he steps through the pathway, the air expands. Fifteen years, and it’s unfamiliar as ever, the way the sound pops in his ears and the molecules in the actual space seem to speed up further for a second before settling down. It’s like a blanket draped over the entire land, blocking out all outside noise, leaving only the quiet of the trees and the gentle whispering winds. There’s a peace here, untouched by the metropolis, old and powerful.

Then: a streaking blur of white and black rushes past them, just about clipping the elderly woman if Wonwoo hadn’t pulled her back fast enough, screaming profanities loud enough to blister Wonwoo’s ears, and a yelling, red-faced Soonyoung hurtling through the sliding doors, stumbling over his bare feet before jumping onto the gravel, shaking his fist.

“ _—Get back here, you godforsaken dickcycle—_ ”

“Your _mom_ is the fucking dickcycle, hyung—”

“Don’t call my mother a dickcycle, you ass-for-nuts, I swear to fuck—”

Wonwoo grins, unbidden, but smothers it immediately, turning to the woman with an apologetic expression. “Halmeonim, I apologize for the disrespectful display; Hoshi-ssi is not usually so, uh, uncouth.”

She laughs heartily, a surprise that Wonwoo can’t keep off his face, and her face seems to lighten with the force of it, shedding years in her mirth. For a quick second, he thinks he can see the prime of her, formidable and vibrant, before she settles, and Wonwoo has to take a minute to breathe out that afterimage, juxtaposed against her present frailness.

“He’s certainly a spirited one,” she says, patting him with a conspiratorial grin. Wonwoo bites back the instinctive snort, but allows himself a wry smile.

“He’s gotten better,” he says, a weak defense of Soonyoung’s personality, but she only chuckles, waving it away with a hand.

“It is good to see spirit,” she says, looking around the yard, wide and sprawling within the hanok outercourt. “It will be a hard life before him. The boy will need all he has to keep him going.”

Wonwoo doesn’t comment on her crypticisms, despite every cell of his body straining for an explanation, just nods and clears his throat to catch Soonyoung’s attention. The man has a squirming Chan in his arms, half straddling his charge’s body in his attempt to mash Chan’s face into the gravel, gleeful and bright, and Wonwoo wishes dearly for this to be Soonyoung always. Happy and unburdened.

“Hoshi-ssi, you have a visitor,” Wonwoo calls out, breaking the playfight with short words. Soonyoung shoots up immediately, startled and embarrassed, hands flying to his admittedly uncombed bedhead and his—Wonwoo snorts quietly to himself—short pajama set, a white T-shirt familiar enough to Wonwoo that it was probably _his_ at one point and shorts that drape over unblemished thighs. Chan gets up slowly next to him, sitting upright with a whine, rubbing the side of his face with a pout.

“ _Hyung_ , you really need to watch your strength,” he complains, cheek red with the distinct imprint of small rocks, and Soonyoung slaps him upside the head with a quick scowl.

“Shut up, you brat,” Soonyoung hisses, before bowing hurriedly to the elder woman, eyes frantically begging Wonwoo for time. “Halmeonim, I deeply apologize for my conduct. It is unbecoming of a baksu and entirely disrespectful to one of your station. Jiyoon-ssaem would’ve had my head for such a display.”

“Nonsense, my dear child,” the woman says, kind and warm. “I’ll have you know your beloved mentor loved to play these exact kinds of jokes in her time as well. It’s a true pleasure to see that same sort of joy lives on in you.”

Wonwoo wouldn’t exactly call beating Chan’s ass to the ground a ‘joke,’ but Soonyoung looks sufficiently chastised and reassured by her words, bowing deeply again before excusing himself to change to receive her in the official parlor. He sneaks one last glance at him before Soonyoung whisks himself away, catching Soonyoung’s eyes briefly, and he raises a half-hand, the fraction of a belated wave.

Soonyoung’s lips twitch, and then he’s gone. Wonwoo is left standing in the courtyard of the hanok with an unknown woman and a suspicious Chan, now, glaring at the two of them. He heaves an internal sigh, squeezing his fingers in lieu of openly rubbing his temples, and moves the two of them into the house briskly.

* * *

**_then._ **

Sometimes, Wonwoo wonders how they get into these situations. He should be studying right now, at the hagwon his mother spends so much money each semester for, reviewing his equations and Korean history. He should be neck-deep in polynomials and the revival of Later Baekje, scratching out practice problems for differentials and sideline notes for the reconfiguration of the Later Three Kingdoms.

Instead, he’s flinching behind a wall, holding a fucking bow and arrow between shaking fingers while Soonyoung sets up the ingredients for a flashbang exorcism or whatever. He’s not really sure what Soonyoung can do when they’re being chased by _literal fire dogs_ in what’s supposed to be a peaceful residential area in Geumcheon-gu, but clearly pointy flying sticks haven’t been helping them.

Still, Wonwoo breathes in deeply, centers himself and his heart, slowing down the beats with the stillness he’d trained into his body, and pulls up the bow and nocks his arrow. Drawing swiftly, he aims, ignoring the frantic muttering beside him, and strains his eyes for the sparking amber fur, the licking streams of fire that flows off their manes, and waits.

They come. Burning the street with pelting steps, setting the grounds ablaze like unearthly comets, the dogs run for them. Even at a considerable distance, the heat is immeasurable, cloaking everything it touches, and in an instant, Wonwoo is drenched in his own sweat, boiling air rising with every closer step they consume. Soonyoung whimpers next to him, hunching protectively over the small white urn—the stupid fucking urn that was supposed to have been a goddamn _delivery_ job—and Wonwoo ignores it all, ignores the shaking, the heat, the way his skin starts blistering as the dogs eat up their precious distance; he waits.

 _Bulgae_ chased after the sun and the moon in the old folklore; Wonwoo can’t imagine what these dogs are chasing here. He doesn’t allow himself the second of consideration that Jiyoon had fucking given them a sun to carry because that way led to madness. But what he does do is think, and think hard about all the stories he’d consumed as a child. _Bulgae_ were weak in their mouths, unable to catch neither the sun nor the moon because they were too sensitive, and so he aims for the muzzle.

He times it well, priming his shot for the lead pack dog, just as the air bubbles with visible steam, the very moisture from his breaths evaporating between the ticks of his heartbeat. He breathes out slow, and in the space of his breaths, releases the arrow, aiming steadfast and true. The arrow sings, cutting through the salivating snarls of the dogs, and slices into the centerpoint of the lead dog’s open mouth.

Wonwoo doesn’t stay to watch the aftermath. He grabs Soonyoung roughly immediately after, gives him a perfunctory check to make sure he’s still conscious (yes, and weakly whining about being manhandled, but tough shit), and runs.

They run fast and hard, feet pounding on smooth pavement, and Soonyoung pushes them into every free spot of light available, the swathes growing larger and larger as dawn approaches. The urn is clutched tightly in Soonyoung’s arms, and Wonwoo hopes wildly for a second that whoever’s receiving this urn gets a giant punch in the face for making them go through this bullshit.

The sound of fury and wildfire dog their heels, howling, and Wonwoo fumbles for another arrow in his quiver. His fingers reach futilely for fletching, legs working double-time to keep him alive, but he doesn’t dare spare the second to turn his head to check. The quiver is empty; he already knows.

“Fuck, fuck, _FUCK_!” he chews out, unbearably angry. Soonyoung turns his head to him for a split-second before turning back, pushing them into the pocket of dawning light over by Hana’s flower shop.

“That’s—that’s—hah—not really—reassuring to be hearing—right now, Wonwoo-yah,” Soonyoung gasps between breaths, flicking sweat off his face with a sleeve, urn tight against his chest.

“Well, I’m out of arrows, so excuse my lack of sympathy!” Wonwoo snaps back, gripping his bow handle.

“Are you an idiot!” Soonyoung looks and reaches out for Wonwoo’s arm, hand shaking and clammy. He lets the boy drag him up into an abandoned lot, half-shadowed by the high-rise complex just a few meters away, and drops to his knees to catch his breath. “H-here, here’s good enough—”

“Soonyoung, I don’t mean to alarm you or anything, but _the dogs are right behind us_ ,” Wonwoo shouts, trying his best to gulp in air. “Why are we stopping here?”

“The bow, the _bow_ , you idiot,” Soonyoung wheezes, waving at the gakgung in Wonwoo’s limp hand.

“What use is the fucking bow without fucking arrows? Do you want me to throw the fucking bow at them?” Wonwoo asks in frustrated panic.

Soonyoung heaves deep breaths, expression half-ready to strangle him; the feeling is mutual. He glares, gesturing to his own forearm, making a drawing motion. “ _You_ are the arrow, Wonwoo, _be_ the fucking arrow!”

“What kind of bullshit are you even on?” Wonwoo hisses, incredulous.

“Like Jiyoon-ssaem said before we left, ‘the light will be your guide’ or whatever!” Soonyoung looks over Wonwoo’s shoulders, eyes frantically trained on the gaining dogs. The air thickens, a warning. “You have to channel yourself through the bow!”

“You—”

“ _JUST FUCKING DO IT BEFORE WE DIE!_ ”

Wonwoo wants the afterworld to know that everything is Kwon Soonyoung’s fault, but he sucks in his breath and draws up his bow without further protest. He shifts his feet, holding the drawn gakgung to his forehead, and visualizes nocking an arrow in. Concentrates on the phantom feeling of fletching between his fingers and the steadiness of a shaft pulling his string.

The snarls are grating now, encroaching like unending forest fire, and the pack pelts forward towards the lot, almost triumphant in their sun-fire eyes. Wonwoo exhales and inhales, pulls the string with a tight thumb grip, scraping over his already-blistered thumb, times the run, and fires.

He hears the gasp behind him, but Wonwoo’s eyes are trained on the dogs instead, waiting for something to—

“Holy _shit_ ,” Soonyoung breathes behind him.

Something, _something_ hits the center three dogs and tears into them with ferocity, like the abrupt banishment of spirits from the B-rated horror movies Wonwoo would watch as a boy. He squints, straining his eyes, and Wonwoo can almost see the shining outline of an arrow form, swiveling through the fire dogs without stop, purifying everything within its radius.

“Shit, Wonwoo, _shit_!” He feels the whack against his shoulders and the huffy hiss against his earlobe. “They’re still coming, Wonwoo, don’t just fucking _stand_ there!”

Wonwoo inhales sharply, and his arms raise automatically, drawing back the string with an envisioned arrow, and this time, he thinks he can feel it, the presence of power between his thumb and ring. It’s a calming warmth, and Wonwoo takes a split second to revel in that small comfort before aiming and releasing, drawing without stop.

One by one, the dogs are banished, their howls dissipating with the heat until the last _bulgae_ is purified, the only trace of them left the scorched asphalt and the smell of woodless fire. Wonwoo stands still, his arms outstretched and held in the same drawn position, gakgung gripped tightly in his hands, but nothing comes for them.

Dawn breaks on them, and not a moment sooner, the rise of the sun a reminder of Soonyoung’s task at hand. Wonwoo finally relaxes, and turns around to Soonyoung with the words on his lips to go, but Soonyoung’s stunned expression holds him back.

“That. That was….”

Wonwoo smirks. “Amazing? Brilliant? _Life-saving_?”

Soonyoung scowls, immediately snapping out of the almost-admiring daze he’d been in, and pushes weakly at Wonwoo with an open hand. “Oh shut up, asshole. Who was the one who almost got us killed in the first place for opening that fucking crate!”

“Ah. Well.” Wonwoo scratches the back of his head sheepishly and turns his chin, ignoring the look on Soonyoung’s face. “Anyway, we gotta make the delivery before the sun fully rises, Soonyoung-ah, come on.”

 

Without the pursuance and their lives at stake, they manage to deliver the urn without any other trouble. The old man who receives them is a bit lackluster, after the trouble they’d gone, but the swirling madness in his dress is only tempered by the disconcerting amount of intelligence in his eyes. Wonwoo is suitably put-off, though Soonyoung doesn’t seem to notice a thing, too busy laughing at the man’s gags.

“I do hope this wasn’t too much of a trouble for you boys,” says the old man, gravelly and kindly, and Soonyoung hurries to assure him otherwise. Wonwoo just frowns, but keeps his words to himself, knowing Soonyoung’s tendency to kick him into silence in polite company.

“Oh, not at all, Im-baksu-nim! It was a, um, a good learning experience,” Soonyoung says with a wince, waving his hands. Wonwoo snorts behind him, rolling his eyes when Soonyoung turns around with a hiss.

The old man’s laughter breaks them out of the glaring match, and both he and Soonyoung look back at the baksu with degrees of chastisement. “Ah, you youngsters. It’s good that you have such a strong partnership, though, because most mansin-in-training don’t come out of a scuffle with a _bulgae_ without injury. You are lucky to have each other.”

They blush almost in unison, cherry red cheeks burning their faces, and the baksu laughs again. “No, Im-baksu-nim, you’re too kind,” Wonwoo says stiffly, nodding his head.

“Ho, ho, enough jokes, I suppose, eh? Would you two like to stay for the kut?” Im-baksu asks, eyes twinkling. Soonyoung exchanges glances with Wonwoo, a wordless conversation, and nods brightly.

“We’d love to take part, Im-baksu-nim, if you’ll have us,” Soonyoung says, hard-pressed to keep the excitement from his voice. Wonwoo saves the twitch of a smile to himself, but nods calmly after him, just as curious.

 

The urn holds a fucking _pole star_.

Vindication would feel sweeter if Wonwoo wasn’t completely taken aback by the whole ritual. He and Soonyoung stand outside of the barrier set up around the baksu’s courtyard, encircled dirt and stone with flags of floating white paper marking each placement.

Though dressed in unruly and bright colors, the old man’s demeanor is completely changed now in the midst of his ritual, eyes slanted clear and vigilant as he swings and dances with a sweeping fan and a broadsword. Soonyoung is breathless next to Wonwoo, his hands coming up to clutch at Wonwoo’s sleeves without thought, but Wonwoo can’t find it in himself to make any comments. He’s equally amazed.

“He’s a _tangol_ , just like ssaem,” Soonyoung breathes, mesmerized. Wonwoo blinks and stares at the old man curiously.

“What kind of ritual is this for?” Wonwoo whispers back, skin prickling with a sense of heaviness. The air swirls around them, unnoticeable but for the way his hair sticks up and the warning bells in the back of his head ringing loud and clear. “What is he going to do?”

“It’s a ritual offering,” Soonyoung explains, eyes trained on the baksu, head moving almost subconsciously to the sway of the music. “The star is being given up as an offering to one of his gods, I think.”

Wonwoo steps back a half-step. “You mean we’re going to be visited by an actual _god_?”

Soonyoung swallows heavily and nods, a little uneased himself. “Yeah, and a pretty powerful one if Im-baksu-nim is giving up a literal star to it.”

“Are we gonna die?” Wonwoo deadpans, tone dryer than a desert.

“Honestly, it’s not out of the realm of possibility,” Soonyoung says seriously. Wonwoo sucks in his breath.

“Is it too late to go home?”

Soonyoung slaps him on the shoulder.

Im-baksu’s voice rises, cutting through their muttered conversation, his vowels rasping lower and lower, and Wonwoo flinches without conscious thought. The air is thick with the swell of something powerful taking root of their physical plane; it bites like electricity on his tongue, sharp and metallic.

The god manifests between shuttered blinks, one moment a loud dancing Im-baksu brandishing his sword and the next, silent and upright, posture entirely overtaken by power. Soonyoung chokes on his breath, gripping tightly at Wonwoo’s arm, and even Wonwoo can feel the sudden charge, a weight heavy over his lungs. Through the corner of his eyes, he can almost make out the shimmering haze of a body, proud and otherworldly, glitching through Im-baksu.

“Well.” The grittiness is startling, squeezing Im-baksu’s original alto down into a choppy bass, like someone had forced gravel down his throat until his vocal folds scraped and scraped. “I see we have company for my tithe today.”

Wonwoo mouthed the words to himself, unease settling into his skin with a crawling itch. He feels the slide of Soonyoung’s hand down his arm, fumbling until it reaches his own, and Wonwoo locks fingers with him without words, ignoring the clammy palm. His is equally as sweaty, anyway.

One of Im-baksu’s apprentices, a woman dressed in clean white linens, steps forward with deferential eyes, posturing herself accordingly to the god’s dominating presence. “Sansin-nim, we humbly thank you for gracing your lowly servants with your presence. We hope that our offerings please you and that pray that you will continue to smile favorably upon us.”

The god purses Im-baksu’s lips with a tone of mischief, sly and uncanny, as he peers over the ceremonial mat of gifts. A collective breath is held as he walks slowly down the line of gifts, passing over each one with a hum. Wonwoo stiffens when the god stops in front of their urn with a visible expression of satisfaction, taking an extra moment to examine it, before moving on. Soonyoung’s hand shakes in his grip, clenching and unclenching as the god passes through.

“Minhyukkie really outdid himself this round, hasn’t he?” It takes a minute for the rest of them to understand, but the widening eyes at the god’s affectionate nickname for Im-baksu comes with a hushed silence from everyone around.

Wonwoo weathers the pinch of Soonyoung’s nails with a grimace, squeezing his hand instead.

“Y-yes, sanshin-nim, Im-baksu-nim has always held you in the highest regards,” the woman says, smoothing her stutter easily.

“As he should,” the god says with a sniff, haughty and prim, nose stretched to the sky. “I need a good courting present, after all, if he wants to keep my attention. And I do love a good star to light my way to him at night.”

The woman doesn’t react, but Soonyoung reacts well enough for the rest of them, barely choking back the incredulous yelp into his throat. Wonwoo winces and slaps him on the back as inconspicuous as possible, shushing him through hissed teeth.

The god sighs, throwing out his arms with a flourish. “Well, let’s get it on with. Bring me the bokjan.”

 

Jiyoon levers her piercing gaze on the two of them, something Wonwoo hates, given how close it feels to an examination under microscope, and the break of her expression into a proud smile only worsens the feeling. Soonyoung beams himself, barely able to keep his poise, and it slips the next moment when Jiyoon claps her arm around in a tight side-hug.

“I’m _proud_ of you, Kwon Soonyoung,” she declares, loud and booming across her courtyards, and Soonyoung exhales under the cover, shaky. He meets Wonwoo’s eyes with a sudden bashfulness, cheeks pink, and Wonwoo smirks back.

“Even after he almost shat himself running away from angry dogs?” Wonwoo says, folding his arms.

Soonyoung scowls at him, making to hit him, but Jiyoon’s steady arm keeps him in place. “Shut up, like you were any better. You actually peed yourself a little when they first appeared.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about; my underwear is as dry as the day they came out of the wash,” Wonwoo says loftily.

“Boys, boys, you’re both cowards, let’s not split hairs,” Jiyoon snorts, reaching out with her free hand to ruffle at Wonwoo’s hair. He weathers it with a growl, while Soonyoung just protests, but Jiyoon fixes them both with a knowing smile.

“You both did a great job today, and I’m immensely proud of _both_ of you.” Wonwoo ducks his head down, does his best to hide the pleased flush spreading over his face, and Jiyoon lets him, knocking a fist against Soonyoung’s head when he tries to gloat.

“Thank you, Jiyoon-nim,” Wonwoo says quietly, and Jiyoon just laughs, ruffling his head again.

“Come on, boys, how ‘bout noona takes you two out for some samgyeopsal, hm?”

“Only if you promise not to touch the grill,” Soonyoung says cheekily, ducking the mock swing she takes at his head. He shares a grin with Wonwoo, small and conspiratorial, and loops his own arm over Jiyoon’s shoulders. They’re the same height now, Wonwoo muses, a little amused; Soonyoung’s grown a bit.

“Yah, I am your elder, brat, I can touch the damn grill if I wanna!”

“Not if you want us to be eating charcoal,” Wonwoo pipes in, his own grin wide now.

* * *

**_now._ **

Halmeonim is seated gracefully on of the pillow mats by the low-rise tea table near the open window of the tea room. Wonwoo putters about, prepping the tea set, but Chan nudges him aside with a scowl to finish the set-up. Wonwoo lets himself be ushered to the other side of the table with an easy smile, taking care not to set off Chan’s mood even more. Soonyoung is setting the table, in his proper finery; cream silk and ceremonially patterned jeogori laid cleanly over his knees, meticulously embroidered sleeves draping over the table as he places a plate of cakes down in front of their guest.

“My, it looks just the same as it did when Yoon-mansin first received me here,” the woman says, looking around with twinkling eyes.

Soonyoung nods, smiling faintly. “I did my best to keep up Jiyoon-ssaem’s old stylings. Most of her old patrons are very particular about their surroundings.” He winks, and thanks Chan with a brighter smile when he brings over the tea set and pours out three cups.

“Have you settled well into the role, Kwon-baksu? I know it can be difficult for the young ones to have to step into their masters’ shoes.” The woman looks at him kindly, but her eyes are sharp, assessing, and it raises the hairs on the back of Wonwoo’s neck. He darts a glance at Soonyoung, ready to jump in for him, but Soonyoung just laughs, sheepish and humble.

“Ah, well, it was quite a struggle at the beginning,” he looks at Wonwoo here, wry, and Wonwoo holds back the instinctive snort, “but I like to think I’ve got the hang of things by now.”

Chan’s face brightens and he leans with glee. “Like how you lost your pants to that gye-long last month over a territory dispute and singed your eyebrows.”

“Or the time he mistaken tried to gamble away the entire Buk-gu district to that dokkaebi because he couldn’t read the hanja correctly.” Wonwoo swallows down his laughter, but his eyes glitter mischievously.

“And the kkangcheoli that we found living under the base of Heejin-noona’s apartment building that almost started a whole-ass hurricane right in the middle of spring.”

“Oh, what about—”

“I think that’s enough reminiscing for now,” Soonyoung butts in hastily, glaring at the two of them. He turns to the elder woman with a passably calm face, even though Wonwoo can see his eyebrows twitching. “I assure you, halmeonim, I am well capable of any request you may have for me.”

The woman laughs, earthy and throaty, surprising them all. “Oh, Kwon-baksu, of that, I have no doubt.” She smiles widely, eyes crinkling into half-moons, and the earlier tension dissipates as if it were never there. “Now then, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“Yes, of course, halmeonim. How can I be of service to you?” Soonyoung straightens, back firming his frame into the baksu who’d made a name for himself throughout South Korea, successor to the famed mansin Yoon Jiyoon’s legacy. His face is soft and ageless, unchanged in over fifteen years, but still, there is a power to him that Wonwoo can taste in the back of his throat, coiled and ready.

The woman sees it now in him, and she nods in satisfaction, pleased. “Indeed, Yoon-mansin chose well in you. You will be great for us all.” Ignoring Soonyoung’s flustered demurs, she folds the sleeves of her durumagi primly and bows her head. “I am pleased to have made your acquaintance in time before my passing.”

“Halmeonim?” Wonwoo can’t help but voice, confused and wary now. The way she keeps on talking to them, with such a knowing tone, and how she even knew Wonwoo’s whole name without him even venturing it forth tells him that she’s someone powerful. But, she just looks tired, frail and aged, and Wonwoo hears nothing from the warning bells in his head, and the way Chan leans towards her with innocent curiosity spells nothing harmful about her presence.

“You know, I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” the woman says casually, looking out the window into the courtyard.

“May we ask what it is you’ve been waiting for?” Wonwoo presses again, fingers tightening under the table.

The woman chuckles, humorless and passing like the briefest whisper of a breeze in a stiff hot summer, and stares at them all with clear eyes. “My passing, my boy, my time has come.” They stiffen reflexively, Chan going as far as to rear back with an opened jaw to retort back, but she holds up a single hand, effectively silencing everyone. “It is as the cycle dictates, and I am eager to shed these earthly bones.”

“But what do you need Soonyoung-hyung for then,” Chan mutters mutinously, crossing his arms.

“Ah, Munshin-ssi, you are a young one yet, hm?” the woman comments, amused, and Chan scowls. “You have so much to learn, Child.”

“I’m over three hundred years old,” Chan snaps despite himself. Soonyoung lays a warning hand on his shoulder, and Chan slumps, pulling a face. “My apologies, halmeonim. I mean no disrespect.”

She waves it away. “Nothing to fuss about. Your protectiveness is gratifying to see, young Munshin-ssi. Rest assured, I need nothing more from Kwon-baksu than just his guidance for my safe passage. I have started this long life with the eyes of a mansin, and I would end it with another.”

Soonyoung dips his head down respectfully, and rises with a set mouth. “Then, it would be my honor to witness your passing, halmeonim.”

 

They reconvene back in the courtyards, the mood somber and tense.

The ceremonial site is cordoned off in the clearing of the yards, with three straw mats lined together. Halmeonim sits in the middle of it, durumagi placed by the porched, leaving her in a cotton white jeogori and baji. Her feet are bare, legs comfortably crossed, and her posture has her comfortably seated, as if she were just sitting for a flower viewing in the outdoors.

Soonyoung is dressed in his best finery, cream po over his white chima and baji, and beoseon stamping around the mat. Chan sits at the edge with his janggu and yeolchae, a double-headed hourglass drum, practicing his hits quietly. They’re performing a modified ssikkim-kut, the streams of paper are already prepared for halmeonim and the white cloth of her life coiled like a fabric snake by Chan’s feet.

“You look worried, Jeon Wonwoo-ssi,” halmeonim says quietly, drawing Wonwoo out of his daze. He stirs, and adjusts his legs closer to himself on the mat, smiling sheepishly at the woman.

“I admit, halmeonim, when we usually do this, the spirits are already deceased,” Wonwoo half-jokes, fiddling with the knot of his durumagi.

“Hm, so they are, so they are,” the woman hums, unbothered. “But Wonwoo-ssi, I do not house an ordinary spirit.”

He hesitates. “Halmeonim, if I may ask, who _are_ you, exactly?”

She smiles at him, unearthly and inscrutable. “That, you will find out soon enough.”

The ceremony starts.

Ordinarily, a ssikkim-kut is done with the audience of a crowd, for the mourners of the deceased and a contingent of assistants to the mansin. But, here, in the safety of Jiyoon’s old lands, the only people around are them and the hidden wildlife amongst the trees and bushes. The drum beats are loud and syncopated, alternating between Chan’s hand and yeolchae on other either side, and Soonyoung dances in rhythm to the beat, clusters of paper streamers rustling in the air despite the lack of wind.

“I call upon the spirits for their time and presence, to witness the passing of one of our own into the spirit world. I call upon the gods for their help in guiding her way, and for their blessings.”

“I was once sentenced to be Shim Sanghee at the start of my mortal life, but I would return now to my brothers and sisters,” the woman calls out, voice clear and firm, “as my whole self, Jowangshin of the hearth and fire.”

Wonwoo sees Chan freeze first from the corner of his eyes, but he’s too busy rolling the name around in his brain. Jowangshin, _Jowangshin_ —a name that sounds familiar, and yet, nothing clears up, his memory too jumbled. The only thing that his brain is willing to conjure up is the sudden fuzzy memory of his grandmother, hunchback and frail, bowing over a bowl of water in front of the fire that she’d pulled from the well in the backyard and praying.

Praying for good fortune.

Over a fire.

Jowangshin of the hearth and fire.

Of the _hearth and fire_.

Oh.

_Oh._

They’re sending a whole-ass _deity_ back into the realm of spirits.

To Soonyoung’s credit, he doesn’t fumble, though Wonwoo can see the clear surprise in his wide eyes, and he swings a fan of streaming paper over the clusters and Jowangshin’s head. Within the air, a swelling gathers over each cluster, a cloud of hushed voices that seem to rise from the earth itself sounding, and they watch in silenced awe as the clusters take on a glow first, then a vibrating hum, then—

In place of the clusters stood a line of sudden-appeared figures, each with a different facial expression. The one closest to Soonyoung and thereby, Jowangshin, is a young woman, of no set age and plain features, nondescript to her toes in rich brown silks and a hanbok patterned in yellow and green stripes. By Chan’s shoulders is a boy, adolescent and so very bored, laying across the mat with his arm propping up his head and a finger picking through his ear. And just before Wonwoo is a short old man, grumpy in countenance and stance, gnarled hands pressing his weight into an ornate stump of a cane.

“Sister. It has been a good while since we’ve last met face-to-face,” the young woman says, serene and unfettered. Each syllable slipping through her mouth feels with the shake of the earth beneath them, the fresh smell of soil uprooting and cloaking the air.

Jowangshin nods her head, sardonic. “You look well, Jishin.”

“ _You_ look like an old fart, little sister,” says the boy detachedly, examining the contents of his ear from his finger.

“And you’re still locked in that boy’s body, aren’t you, Seongju-yah? You would think that after five hundred years, that minor hex would’ve worn off, hm?”

The boy scowls, sitting upright, but the old man cuts him off with a stamp of his cane. “Enough, brother, sister, we’ll have time for quarrels enough after.”

“Yes, Yongshin is right,” Jishin agrees, tilting her lips into a faint smile. She looks at Soonyoung and nods. “I trust you will bring our sister back to us without trouble.”

Soonyoung bows deferentially, a straight ninety-degree bend, but his voice is strong and confident. “Of course, Jishin-nim. You have my word.”

Seongjushin snorts, dropping back down into a lazy sprawl, pinky finger now in a nostril, and waves dismissively. “Yeah, brat, give it your best shot. You better have some wine for me after this; I can’t be coming to this dump for just nothing.”

“You’ll have your offerings later, brother,” Yongshin chides. To Soonyoung and a frozen Chan, he says, “You best get on with it, boy. And you would do well to look a little less like someone decided to cold-cock you in the face, Munshin. Assume your dignity.”

Before Chan can reply, Soonyoung hurries on, bowing once more, and trades his fan for coil of cloth. Slowly, he raises it above Jowangshin’s head, and as it uncoils itself, the knots in the fabric reveal themselves, thick and heavy, dragging down the cloth. With his two hands holding the length steadily horizontal across her head, Soonyoung starts to sing. Chan plays for him obligingly, somber thumps of his drum in heavy contrast to his dark eyes focused on the gods standing in attendance.

The song is old, archaic in inflection and tonal, resembling more a folk song one would hear sung among rural island fishermen than any of the songs Wonwoo used to hear his grandmother sing under her breath at nights. He can see the way the gods seem to straighten, though, how Jowangshin herself seems to sit up as Soonyoung sings, as though the syllables grant them power. _It’s reasonable to assume,_ the detached part of his brain thinks, watchful and assessing, _since words are made magic just by how they’re spoken._

Eventually, the notes die away, the last vowels fading into the heavy air from Soonyoung’s hoarse throat, and his hands move at once, snapping the cloth taut from each end, and the knots unknot themselves without fanfare. A collective breath is released, even from the gods, and even the air feels as though some pressure has lifted off, easing.

Jowangshin smiles keenly, the wrinkles of her face lightening, like the years are rewinding on her with every second further the kut goes. “You do your teacher justice, Kwon-baksu.”

He doesn’t answer, but Soonyoung smiles thin and gratified before dipping down to his knees in front of her, tossing aside the cloth for the bowls of water: one mixed with ash, one with mugwort, and a final clear bowl.

Spirit cleansing usually is done on a paper effigy, but given that Jowangshin is still alive at the moment and not quite yet decomposing, they make do. Soonyoung cleans her face and proffered body three times with clinical, but sure hands: ash for the earthly body, mugwort for the soul, and clear water for the whole. Each wash, the air becomes lighter, and Jowangshin herself seems brighter, as if shedding layer after layer of accumulated grief and humanity.

At last, when Soonyoung has her dry her face with her sleeves, he sets up her road, flattening out the cloth length from the mat to the courtyard earth. As soon as the fabric settles, the gods take their place, standing on the sides of the path, silent guards to Jowangshin’s final departure. Chan, without being asked or commanded, takes his own place by the path, face set as he stands next to Yongshin. Wonwoo stands up and offers a hand to Jowangshin, taking her weight as she rises from her seat, and leads her to the edge of the starting road.

Her shoes, worn and plain straw, are placed delicately facing out to the courtyard. With a smile, Jowangshin holds out a hand to Soonyoung, and Wonwoo takes Chan’s former seat, holding a gong in his hand with the yeolchae.

“Halmeonim, it has been an honor to have known you, if only for the short time we’ve had,” Soonyoung says with a bow, not quite tearful, but the redness of his eyes are hard to miss.

“You are a kind boy, with a kinder heart.” Jowangshin regards him with fondness, patting him on the cheek with a grandmotherly hand. “May the gods be merciful with your fate, Kwon Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung swallows thickly, visibly holding back a response, and nods instead. He takes a moment to steady himself, and within a breath, Kwon-baksu is back in his place, confident and strong. He gives Wonwoo a nod, and Wonwoo starts the gong with a measured beat.

“Here, at the end of the road, we return Shim Sanghee to earth and Jowangshin to spirit.” Soonyoung’s voice rings out clearly against the ring of the gong, and Jowangshin starts a steady pace down the road, unaided and back straight without pain or age.

“Homecoming is my reward, and I take my steps now to my rightful place. I have paid my price, and now is my due,” Jowangshin says as she walks, loud and strong, and the gods nod as one.

“We welcome you with open arms, sister,” they say, even Chan, and she meets them all at the end of the road, separated from earth by just a breath.

Soonyoung and Wonwoo bow to them, reverent and solemn. “We thank you for your presence, and your guidance. May you take Jowangshin home with all due care, and be safe in your journey.”

“Brat, you better leave me my offerings or I will lay such a curse on you when I return,” Seongjushin calls out, disinterested.

It breaks the overall mood within a blink, and Soonyoung raises back up with a laugh. “I will keep them safe and untouched, Seongjushin-nim.”

Chan sticks his head out from the gaggle with a worried expression. “Hyung, make sure you don’t torch down the rest of the bushes, please! It took me months to get the roots to start growing back without fear of burning!”

Wonwoo snickers, but clears his face when Soonyoung throws him an acidic glare. “I’ll make sure the fire stays contained, Chan-ah.”

“...I’ll be back before dinner time,” Chan replies, furrowing his brows at Wonwoo sullenly.

Jishin places a hand on Chan’s elbow, but keeps her eyes on Soonyoung. “If we may, please?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

Soonyoung kneels, placing his hands on the cloth road and mutters. In a blink, a fire starts, flames slowly rising and spreading down the length until they reach the feet of Jowangshin and the deities. The last thing she gives them is a smile, mischievous and youthful.

Then, they alight into flames.

 

Clean-up is a little messy because despite Wonwoo’s promises and Chan’s plea, the surrounding grass patches get caught in the sending fire and end up charred. Soonyoung had stayed put until all that remained were the ashes of the paper effigies and cloth, then ran frantically to stomp out the rest of the fire.

Wonwoo laughed first, then chucked the bowls of water at the remaining fire. And Soonyoung.

So now, he’s sentenced to raking up the scorched grass ends while Soonyoung puts away the mats and instruments, all while Soonyoung complains at full-speed.

“Can’t believe you got my good po wet, asshole! Do you know how much this costs to get dry-cleaned!”

“Not like you won’t make Chan clean it for you when he comes back anyway,” Wonwoo mutters, rolling his eyes.

He ducks down immediately, barely avoiding the tossed roll of paper thrown at his head. “I _heard_ that, fuckhead!”

“Should I have yelled it across the yard then?”

Soonyoung chucks the yeolchae at him. “Suck my dick, fuckface!”

“Already did that last week, thanks.”

The conversation goes on in this strain for another few minutes, with Soonyoung fuming and Wonwoo snickering at him, but at last, the courtyards are put back to a semi-presentable state. The burnt patches, Wonwoo hides with strategically-placed vases; if Chan asks, it’s definitely Soonyoung’s idea.

“Did you know halmeonim was actually someone so powerful?” Wonwoo asks after a while. He’d considered Soonyoung’s surprise during the ceremony, but his original familiarity with Jowangshin had spoken of a long acquaintanceship.

Soonyoung pauses in his walk to the porch, a quick freeze, before making the rest of the way there and setting down the rolled-up mat and empty bowls. “Ah, well….”

“You can’t seriously tell me you’ve been rubbing elbows with literal gods since you were in fucking high school, Soonyoung, what the hell.”

“I haven’t!” Soonyoung defends, hands upturned. “I didn’t even know her name until today!”

“I hear a ‘but’ waiting to happen.”

“...I mean, ssaem is a pretty famous mansin, it wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility that she would know such powerful people?” Soonyoung says in the end, sheepish. “I only ever knew halmeonim as that one old lady who really liked peach candies because she’d give me like a handful whenever she came over for tea with ssaem. And that she really liked whenever I cooked for them. Said she felt so touched by my ‘sincerity’ every time.”

“Only you would be able to win over an actual goddess with your home cooking,” Wonwoo muses, almost dazed.

“Shut up. A-anyway, what are you talking about ‘rubbing elbows’! You know Chan is a minor god himself, right?” Soonyoung points out, changing the subject as best as he can.

Wonwoo snorts, flapping his bony wrists dismissively. “Yeah, but Channie is Channie. Hard to find a brat who still drinks juice boxes for breakfast and gets scared of bumblebees floatin around his head impressive, even if he’s supposed to be some big hot-shot. Also, he cleans your socks on a daily basis.”

Soonyoung opens his mouth to argue, but clicks it shut at the last second.

“You know he’s going to put salt in your rice for this when he gets back.”

“I am prepared to receive my due diligence for revealing the truth.”

Wonwoo grins as he watches Soonyoung shake his head and head inside, but the misgivings he’d been feeling the entire time he keeps silent still. Maintain the line, he thinks, keep Soonyoung happy and well.

He takes one last look at the courtyard before heading inside himself, raising his eyes to the blue skies. _Be kind to him,_ he murmurs under his breath. _Keep your promise, Jiyoon-nim._


	2. this is how it went

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't forgotten about this fic, and it is within my deepest desires to bring this fic to its proper end. it probably won't be any time soon, but i thought it would be good to just put the rest of what i had out there for the time being.
> 
> if a section looks familiar to you, it's because i had originally posted it earlier as its own standalone for 96zfest. it's linked in the series if you wanted to just read that, lol.

_**now.**_

When the summer heat cloaks the city at night with its heavy arms and the dragonflies buzz about in the open air with a drunk hum, Soonyoung jokes he’s at his best, at the peak of his power, subsumed completely in the headiness of the gods and the intoxicating breath of nature. He splays himself so lovely and sinuous, fluid in a grace that took the years of his youth and so much heartbreak to stain into his body, and Wonwoo can believe wholeheartedly that Kwon Soonyoung is made of magic.

He doesn’t say it aloud, unwilling to give Soonyoung even more flattery to inflate his ego, but he thinks it constantly, a mantra that barely holds from the well of his lips when he stares down at the boy under his arms, beautiful and glowing. Junhui used to tease him constantly about it in university, how Wonwoo would trail after Soonyoung like he was the only tether keeping him aground.

It’s not true, though: Wonwoo’s the tether.

Soonyoung clings to him so easily at night, the way his soft hands roam over the stretch of Wonwoo’s back greedily, like he’s trying to map out the continent of Wonwoo’s body with the press of his fingertips and the sting of his nails. It’s not painless; Soonyoung has a tendency to leave his nails uncut for longer than a week just for occasions like this, but it’s also something that Wonwoo craves indefinitely. The hurt bites into him a physical reminder that Soonyoung is present and not somewhere else, lost in the mire of godhood and spirits.

He lets Wonwoo sink into him, Soonyoung with his throat bared pale and sweat-shiny under the glow of moonlight and dimmed fluorescence and legs wrapped so lovely around his waist, and Wonwoo takes hungrily every time, the heat of him burning through Wonwoo’s restraint with each thrust pushed into willing arms. Soonyoung is vocal, has always been loud with his opinions, but here trapped in the bounds of Wonwoo’s slick body—Soonyoung _sings_.

“Faster, faster, you can hurt me, Wonwoo-yah, make it _hurt_ ,” Soonyoung warbles, pitchy and gasping, delirium punched out his throat. Wonwoo obeys helplessly, grunting with each slam of his hips.

 _Stay_ , he doesn’t say, _stay here, with me, stay_ , even though the words burn in the back of Wonwoo’s throat, bristling to escape and be heard. Soonyoung moans for him, verbalizing with the whines and endless pleas for more, more, yes, right there, _yes yes yesyesyes_ —

Wonwoo wants Soonyoung to stay so much. Wants to pin his wings down with the butterfly needles and hold the brilliant boy in place so that he won’t fly away, wants to believe that every time Soonyoung cries for him is a step closer to Wonwoo having him forever. He wants with such a ferocity, and it translates to the maddening thrusts into an oversensitive Soonyoung and the shuddering gasps he can’t help heaving until he finishes.

He tastes fresh blood on his tongue and bitter from the way Soonyoung kisses, open-mouthed and sated, and the pinch of self-loathing because in truth, it’s not about Soonyoung staying. Soonyoung will stay here for the rest of eternity, chained to his cursed post, but Wonwoo will be a whisper in the wind within a blink of his eye.

He wants to stay.

* * *

_**then.**_

Of all the people Wonwoo expects to see at Jiyoon’s shop, Wen Junhui does not even come close to his imagination. And yet: he sits across from Jiyoon’s regal sun chaise with familiarity, not sparing a single curious glance around him at the flower vases and antiques bracketing the room. Soonyoung walks into Wonwoo’s back, unaware of his sudden stop, and starts complaining, but it filters out of Wonwoo’s ears in favor the white buzz of panic.

“What the hell, Wonwoo, your back almost broke my nose! What have you been doing to your spine?”

“Ah, Soonyoungie? Wonwoo-goon?” Junhui asks, pleasantly surprised, like it’s an everyday occurence to see his college mates at a wish-granting shop.

“ _What the fuck?_ ”

Wonwoo’s emphatic greeting is overshadowed by Soonyoung’s even louder, “Junnie? Wh-what are you doing here?”

Junhui looks apologetically at Jiyoon, who just allows him with a wave of her hand and a fond chuckle, and he turns in his seat to face them fully. He looks just as out of place as the two of them, dressed in sweatpants and a tank that Wonwoo’s pretty sure he’s seen Soonyoung wiping his face with during practices, hair tousled like he’d only been in bed an hour or two ago. But, he sits relaxed, unbothered by their collective incredulity, and gestures for them to sit down on the seats next to him.

“What’s going on here, ssaem? Why is Junnie here?” Soonyoung asks again, directing the question to his teacher this time. Jiyoon holds a finger to her lips and nods at Junhui instead.

“Let the boy tell his story, brat. Stop asking unnecessary questions.”

Junhui smiles at her, sunny, and then at Soonyoung and Wonwoo. “I bet you guys weren’t expecting to see little ol’ me here, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s been well established, Junhui,” Wonwoo deadpans. “I mean, it’s not that impossible, I guess, when you think about it. This _is_ a wish-granting shop. That doesn’t exclude you from it, just because you’re our friend.”

Soonyoung throws him a dirty look. “Stop making yourself seem better than me. I’m allowed to be surprised that Junnie of all people are here! He’s like the happiest guy in the world—what does he need with wishes?”

“That’s… true. You always seemed content with yourself,” Wonwoo considers, furrowing his brows, watching Junhui. The boy nods, a secretive smile curling his lips now.

“Yeah, this store is usually for people who have like really unachievable wishes and shit,” Soonyoung pipes in, frowning now. He scowls at Jiyoon. “You better not be holding Junnie hostage here for something, ssaem, I swear to god.”

“Have a little faith, kiddo.” Jiyoon rolls her eyes. “Besides, I _do_ do other things besides granting wishes, in case you forgot. Most of my customers actually come for blessings, dumbass.”

Soonyoung puffs his cheeks out, ready to chew her off, but Junhui interrupts his tantrum with a well-timed laugh, slinging an easy arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, guys. I’m just here to buy a birthday gift. No big deal.”

The words sink in in silence before Wonwoo and Soonyoung start sputtering.

“Ah hah ha, so about that wish-granting thing! That was completely a joke, you know!”

“What do you mean a birthday gift? This isn’t a gift shop, you idiot!”

“We totally don’t do any kind of magic around here! This is strictly for exorcisms and cultural history!”

“Couldn’t you just go to fucking Coex or something for a present?”

“Nothing strange about this place at all!”

Junhui rolls his eyes and holds his hands up, yells, “Guys!”

Soonyoung’s mouth clicks shut up with an audible clack, Wonwoo not far behind with a scowl on his face. Jiyoon regards them all from her vantage point with a placid face, but Wonwoo’s been around her long enough to know that she’s dying of laughter internally with the way her mouth keeps twitching upward.

“Are you done?” Junhui asks wryly. Soonyoung makes a face.

“Fine, you dick. Tell us.”

“First, yes, I know this is a wish-granting shop. No need for all that floundering, Soonyoungie, that was cute, but I’m good.” Junhui cuts off Wonwoo’s opened mouth with a look. “Second, I wanted to get a really special gift for, uh, you know. Someone really special to me.”

A better person would leave Junhui and his sudden meek red cheeks alone, but Wonwoo doesn’t know any. “You mean for Jihoon, huh?”

Soonyoung clicks his tongue and cuffs him on the shoulder, but he gives Junhui an equally teasing smirk. “Hey, let the guy keep his secrets. Even if his crush is hideously obvious to everyone.” Junhui scowls at them both, but the effect is lost with his bright red face. “On the bright side, Jihoonie’s probably one of the most oblivious guys to feelings that extend past a healthy appreciation for musical instruments.”

Wonwoo feels his eyebrows twitch despite himself, and the prickle of two pitying stares from Junhui and Jiyoon on his body. He resolutely ignores them both. Soonyoung keeps blabbering, unaware of everyone else’s exasperation, and Wonwoo hopes they keep it that way. Even if he does feel a little frustrated himself with Soonyoung’s lack of awareness.

“Shut up, you guys. This gift is really important to me, okay,” Junhui pouts, lips turned downward in a childish moue, and Soonyoung coos, pinching at a cheek. “It’s his twentieth birthday, you know. And he’s been out sick for a while, so. I thought it’d be nice.”

“Yeah, speaking of which, why didn’t you put as much thought into my birthday gift, huh? All I got from you were a lousy pair of socks and a ticket to watch the Avengers movie, which you knew I’d already seen,” Wonwoo complains, relaxing into his chair now that Junhui’s presence was explained to his satisfaction.

“Oh my god, will you let that go already!”

“Junnie treated me to galbi-tang,” Soonyoung crows.

“See! This is clear favoritism! I thought we were friends, Wen Junhui,” Wonwoo says, shaking his head. “I thought I _meant_ something to you, but I guess that was just me.”

“Wow, one, let it the fuck go, asshole. Two, let it go. Three, _let it go._ ” Junhui ticks off his fingers as he counts, raising his eyebrows emphatically at each number. Wonwoo flaps his hand at him, and Junhui’s fingers flip down except for one. “Also, whatever, yes, okay, it’s favoritism. It’s not like I wanna suck _your_ dick or anything, no offense.”

“I should take offense anyway, but it’s not like I want you to be anywhere near my dick either, so,” Wonwoo retorts.

“Charming, Wonwoo-goon, real charming,” Jiyoon inserts, snorting. The three of them jump in their seats, Wonwoo and Junhui looking sheepishly at her.

Soonyoung squeaks, blooming red in his cheeks, and drops his face into his hands to escape his teacher’s eyes. “Oh my god. I can’t believe I forgot ssaem was right here, and you guys talked about dick-sucking right in front of her face,” he moans into his palms.

“Well, it’s not like I haven’t done my fair share,” Jiyoon says, mock-offended, and Soonyoung groans even louder, muttering, _That’s even more information that I never needed to know about you_ , faintly through his hands.

Junhui clears his throat. “Right, uh, well. So I wanted to do something extra special for Jihoon for his birthday, and I thought Yoon-mansin would be able to help.”

“So, what’s the gift? Are you getting Jiyoon-nim to give Jihoon’s house a ritual exorcism? Are you gonna bless his family for good fortune?” Wonwoo asks, dry and amused. Soonyoung kicks at his leg with clenched teeth, and he dodges with a swift raise of his legs onto his chair.

“Well, it’s a little more special than that,” Junhui demurs, eyes twinkling. He hesitates on continuing, looks at Jiyoon for voiceless permission, and she nods reassuringly. Junhui smiles to himself, shy. “I’m going to play something for him.”

“Oh? Like a piano piece? Oh! Did you write him a song, Junnie? That’s so sweet!” Soonyoung snaps his fingers, drawn out of his sulk.

Junhui laughs a little, bringing a hand to hide it. “Uh, well. It’s not a piano piece. I thought about that at first, but it wasn’t special enough. It doesn’t have enough.”

 _Doesn’t have enough what?_ But before Wonwoo can ask, Junhui is out of his seat and headed for one of the back storage rooms, walking towards the hallway with guided purpose and the steps of someone who’s been here far more than just a proprietary visit. Soonyoung and him hurry after him, Jiyoon following behind at a leisurely pace, and they look at each other in confusion.

Junhui takes them to one of Jiyoon’s music rooms, where a multitude of instruments stand, two grand pianos bracketing the corners and a golden harp bookending a rackful of zithers and strings. They walk around the timpanis and the many sized percussion instruments, Soonyoung almost tripping over a slanted bassoon that he swears slid down just as he was walking, and Junhui stops them by a case slotted between shelves of gayageums and ajaengs.

“Jiyoon-nim… you’re kind of a packrat,” Wonwoo says plainly, and lets himself be hit by Soonyoung’s offended hand. Jiyoon hums behind them, unaffected.

“I have a lot of time on my hands,” she mentions, offhanded. It’s an innocent enough statement, but somehow it still sends sudden chills down Wonwoo’s spine.

“What are all these gayageums doing here? Are you gonna give him one of these as your gift?” Soonyoung asks curiously, hand stretching out to touch before he remembers himself. Junhui bites his lip and opens the bottom set of doors of the case, revealing a long and wide zither.

“This is a guzheng,” Junhui says distantly, eyes fixated on the instrument, running a stray hand down its strings. “It’s _my_ guzheng.”

“Yours?”

“I didn’t know you played this!”

Junhui ignores both of their responses, continuing on as if they went unheard. “I gave this to Yoon-mansin a long time ago for a wish. And now, she’s giving it back to me for another wish. Funny how things come round full-circle.”

“That doesn’t sound creepy at all,” Wonwoo drawls. Junhui blinks and looks over his shoulder at them, as if suddenly realizing they were in the same room with him.

“Hm? Oh! No, uh, it’s just, you know,” Junhui waves his hand, searching for the right word, “uh, for dramatic effect.”

“Well, you certainly achieved it.”

“Anyway,” Soonyoung cuts in, giving Wonwoo a stern look, “so, you’re gonna play a song for Jihoonie on this thing? It looks really expensive; was it a family heirloom or something?”

Junhui grins oddly. “Yeah, it’s been with me for a very long time. You know, my, uh, great-great-grandfather used to say that these strings here,” he gestures at the pure white strings running around the wood, “came from a fox spirit’s tail hairs. There were stories about how playing this guzheng actually brought summoned the supernatural to the its listeners. That’s why it’s so valuable.”

“A fox spirit?” Wonwoo and Soonyoung exchange wary glances. “You mean like a gumiho? Aren’t they, uh, just legends?”

(“And really dangerous,” Wonwoo mutters under his breath.)

“Well, every legend has to come from some ounce of truth, right?” Junhui offers, wry smile on his lips. “And, it’s not a gumiho; we called ours _huli jing_ , and they’re—let’s just say they’re a lot more playful than their Korean relatives.”

Jiyoon walks over at this point, laying a flat hand over Junhui’s shoulder. “Your friend here had a really good wish, and it needed a really heavy price. So, he gave me this. In today’s market price, I think this instrument would probably go for, at least, a solid, hm, fifty-five billion won, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her words settle over them for a good minute before reactions occur.

“ _B-billion?_ Like, nine zeros billion? That kind of billion?”

“You could literally buy out an entire apartment complex in Seoul with that kind of money….”

Junhui counts over his fingers, mouthing numbers to himself with wide doe-eyes.

Wonwoo is the first to break out of the numbers-induced daze, snapping an incredulous expression at Junhui. “You gave up a fifty-five billion won musical instrument for a fucking _wish_? What the fuck did you even wish for? Your own personal country? Seven mansions on each continent? _An extra three lives?_ ”

“Don’t be silly, Wonwoo-goon. A single life would cost the entire GDP of five-plus countries at the very least,” Jiyoon chortles, her laugh airy and careless. It dies within the next breath, with a sudden flash of teeth. “And even then, I wouldn’t begin to consider it even remotely equivalent to a life.”

Junhui shakes his head and dismisses the words like Jiyoon hadn’t just dropped an metaphoric bomb on them all. “Well, it’s mine again, anyway, and I really do appreciate this, Yoon-mansin. More than you could imagine.” He bows his head deeply, and Wonwoo and Soonyoung shuffle uncomfortably in place.

“You gave me the right price,” Jiyoon says simply.

 

Only after Junhui is gone with his huge zither and a promise to meet up with Soonyoung for lunch after class next week do the two of them remember to ask Jiyoon about the price he’d paid.

“Ssaem, what did Junhui give up?” Soonyoung asks quietly. He places down a tray of prepared fruit and a steaming cup of tea in front of a lounging Jiyoon, and waits for his answer. Wonwoo waits by the corner, propped up by the wall, but he is no less interested in the response.

Jiyoon doesn’t answer for a while, choosing instead to stare into her cup, like Soonyoung had placed in front of her a complex puzzle to solve instead. Just when Soonyoung opens his mouth to ask again, Jiyoon regards them both.

(In that instant, she looked all of her age, ageless as she was, and Wonwoo remembers it with a cold shiver even now, how tired and unflinching she sat, with a grim mouth and even grimmer eyes.)

“He gave me an ending.”

* * *

_**then.**_

(Later, in the aftermath of Jiyoon’s death, Soonyoung called Wonwoo to the front steps of her shop, and he came without complaint. It seemed right, even if he would’ve made a fuss any other time; Soonyoung looked barely present, the shine of him ghostly. He looked like he’d been thrown into a fucking bender and taken for so many spins that the universe was just being cruel at this point to let him go. Wonwoo hated it.

“What are you going to do now?” he asked, unwilling to let the silence between them stretch out. It was yet dawn, the small in-between of night and day, and everything around them seemed extra forbidding in their quiet. Soonyoung swayed in it, frail and small, and Wonwoo wanted to shake him alive. Wanted to say something that would snap him back.

“...I’m going to keep the shop,” Soonyoung said. Wonwoo’s fists clenched; it felt like a finality that he never consented to.

“What does that mean for you? Are you going to drop out of school? What about your family? Your friends?” _What about me?_ , he didn’t say, but Soonyoung looked at him, stricken, like he heard it anyway.

“Wonwoo….”

He gritted his teeth, the way Soonyoung said his name so hesitantly, and now, Wonwoo was just angry. He was angry at Jiyoon for dying, he was angry at the spirits for clinging to Soonyoung, he was angry at _Soonyoung_ for his bleeding heart, he was—he was angry at himself for being so helpless to stop Soonyoung from his damning choices.

“Is the shop so important to you that you’d give up your life for it?”

Soonyoung bit his lip, furrowing his brows; privately, Wonwoo thought, _good, be angry, be alive_. “You don’t understand, Wonwoo. This place is all I have left.”

“You have _me_.”

Soonyoung sucked in his breath, taken aback. Wonwoo shook, minute and grim, but it was visible in the way he lifted his furled hand up to grasp at Soonyoung’s sleeve. His mouth thinned.

“You have me, Kwon Soonyoung. Is that not enough?”

“I didn’t—you never— _Wonwoo_.” Soonyoung looked helpless. “The shop needs a tether to exist. I can’t let it go—this is all I have left of ssaem.”

“And you think by staying here, you’re gonna do what? Be able to _bring her back?_ ” Wonwoo laughed, bitter and mean. “That’s not how it goes, Soonyoung-ah. You can’t bring back the dead. You of all people should know that the best.”

Soonyoung flinched, face crumpling before it hardened. “This is my choice, Wonwoo. You can’t change my mind.”)

**Author's Note:**

>  **full context:** soonyoung is a young shaman-in-training, working at a mansin's magic wish-granting shop in exchange for training and protection. this fic is very loosely based around [xxxHoLic](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/XxxHolic), except i've tried my best to localize the mythology and lore to south korea as accurately as possible.
> 
> obviously, since the folklore around korean shamanism is not very well-known outside of academic literature, i've been using the sources available to me--mainly wikipedia, and a few jstor articles. if you want any of the full research materials i have on hand, let me know and i'd be happy to share with you! (i'll put up a full works cited list when i'm done with the fic!) nonetheless, because this is clearly fiction, i did take a few artistic liberties with how some of the kut/rituals are done. if there is anything that seems insensitive or particularly worrying to you, please let me know and i will do my best to rectify my mistakes!
> 
> i decided not to include a glossary because i feel like it doesn't necessitate one for clarification, but if you're really curious, feel free to ask me what anything is!
> 
> also, hugest thanks to annie/[kwonsoonday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwonsoonday/pseuds/kwonsoonday) for being my cultural sensitivity reader and correcting me on my mistakes!! anything else wrong with the romanized korean and culture featured is my fault alone!
> 
> and thank you to p, n, and everyone else who's been so helpful and willing 2 put up with my whining for this long. i deserve none of this kindness, but i do my best to be worthy of it.


End file.
